Bath
by Lexie Jayne
Summary: ... it was Syl who showed all the restraint in the early days – he wondered if she’d ever admit to loving him, even if she was held at gunpoint. Those old insecurities were still there, jeering at him in the back of his mind.


**Author's Notes: **I'm honestly not sure what inspired me to write this except I walked in, sat down and did it. It's not exactly how I pictured it when I reflected on it, but I like the tone. Helped me get back into the S/K frame of mind. A few notes at the end. But yeah; night before an English exam, haven't read the novel we're studying and I'm writing fic...

Set Season 2, around Freak Nation.

_For Somebody's Dark Angel; just for asking._

Love is cookies, socks, Joshua Alba and reviewing fic.

* * *

He watched her pin up her long blonde hair with plastic clips she brought from the drug store; plastic red and white daisies. She hated getting her hair wet unless she was washing it; he'd grin and know it was because of all her feline DNA. 

Or maybe it was because she was female. Either way, it amused him. Sometimes he'd help her pin it up, twisting the strands around his fingers slowly, and very carefully pinning it up. She never took as much time with her hair as he did – he was gentle and very deliberate. Especially with her.

He rested against the towel rail as Syl peeled off her shirt and jeans, climbing into the bathtub. There was soap sitting on the side of the bath, not-quite-white and milk scented. Krit hated that soap Syl somehow acquired every two weeks; it was too sweet for him. Reminded him of babies and vomit, two things he could not abide by. But it was always there, slightly yellow and evil looking. But in a world where shampoo was a luxury, Krit didn't complain about the soap Syl bought. It wasn't like there was anything Syl could do.

She looked up at him, a smile on her face. "Whatcha thinking?" she asked, picking up the lump of soap. Krit shook his head once before refocusing on her.

"Nothing much." He watched her smooth the soap over her legs, leaning back in the warm water.

He loved her – ever since they were little kids. He would never forget the way she clung to him, tucked into his pallet, back after munitions drills. She had always been as small as Jace, even though she was older. He'd always look out for her in training, no matter what sides they were on.

"I can practically hear your mind ticking over, Krit," Syl sighed theatrically. "What the hell are you thinking?"

"I love you," he shot back instantly, Syl making a face in reply. She hated that, feelings and emotions and anything that could be considered a weakness. She was so like Zack in that way, Krit was surprised how much they argued. But maybe their similarities gave them both a blind spot. When she first let him get involved with her – and it was Syl who showed all the restraint in the early days – he wondered if she'd ever admit to loving him, even if she was held at gunpoint. Those old insecurities were still there, jeering at him in the back of his mind.

"You really hate me telling you that don't you?" Krit pulled off his own t shirt and knelt beside the bath. Old sex-capades had lead to them realising the bath was not big enough for two of them. The shower on the other hand…

"Not hate, per se…" Syl trailed off, sitting up and resting her hand on his cheek. She leant forward, resting her cheek against his. "I love you too," she murmurs. And he knows that, in the way she stuck around for the last… what year is it? … six years. She could've left after the thing with Ben, after Brin got sick, when Tawny asked her to meet him Las Vegas. And Krit valued each of those sacrifices more than any soggy declarations of love. She should have gone after Ben, straight away. She should've checked on Zane after Brin's… departure.

And she should've gone to Tawny, because she was Syl and he was Tawny. Because more times than Krit could count, it had been Tawny protecting Syl at Manticore. Krit may have been the one to check for broken bones and wipe the blood and the tears off of her face, but it was Tawny who stood close by and made sure Lydecker didn't see the tears, or hear them call each other anything but their designations. And when Syl's hands started to shake, it would be Tawny who stepped out of line, just to distract the guards.

And when Zack sent Krit with Zane that night all those winters ago, he sent Syl with Tawny.

He remembered Chicago like it had happened yesterday. Tangled up in the bed sheets and sharing a pizza. He remembered that was when Syl had shorter hair, and she'd tie it up on the top of her head. They were playing true confessions, something Krit had spent a long summer playing with Tinga – and that's why they were avoiding Zack; because Krit couldn't keep a secret and he knew about Charlie and the baby. And Syl – after Krit had spilled it all – had dragged him all over the country, to give Tinga some time to come clean.

She'd admitted he might mean more to her than just a fling. He had admitted he was scared she'd leave him for Tawny one day. And she'd kissed him hard and they'd fallen backwards together and she'd stayed since.

Krit picked up the washcloth and ran it over Syl's back. There was a tattoo of a small black cat on her lower back; it stood out to him. She leant forward, resting her arms on her knees. It had been different since they lost Zack. Syl had lost some – but not all – of her inhibitions about life, in general. Yeah, she'd never be the sort of girl who'd blush when he told her he loved her, she'd never take his orders and she'd never ever wear a skirt.

But she'd let him talk to her while she took her bath, like now. He'd rub her back for her, she was always so tense, and he'd finger the slim scars that dotted her body – stab wound, dog bite, burn, plate glass window – and he'd worry. He'd worry there'd be a seizure that tryptrophan couldn't ease. He'd worry she'd pack up and walk out while he was at his mind numbing job. He'd worry one day, she'd start locking the room door when she took her baths again.

"You okay?" Syl asked, turning towards him, the water in the bath sloshing onto the floor. A lock of hair had drifted free of her clips and fluttered against her cheek. She leant forward and kissed him hard, reminding him that no matter how long she mourned for Zack, she still loved him more than she would ever tell her and there was still passion.

"Fine. Worried." Krit kissed her back, his hands discarding the wash cloth and slipping over wet skin.

Syl didn't pull back. She deepened the kiss, her arms wrapping around Krit's neck. She worried too, some days. That Krit wouldn't put up with her forever; that the milk-soap and her inability to say, 'I love you' will drive him away, in the arms of a girl who can find scentless soap and can scream her feels out in the middle of the street, and she'll be left alone. And it's not the thought of being alone that makes her feel cold; it's the fact she'd be alone without Krit that makes her feel tense and cold.

"Me too." That slipped out and she tried to cover it up by letting her hands drift down to the zipper on Krit's jeans, but he recognized a cover up when he saw one. He brushed her hands aside, and looked at her.

"Talk to me," he said, twisting that lock of hair back behind her ear. She sighed and leant against the porcelain rim of the bathtub, looking at her boyfriend carefully. His dark eyes, hair curling across his face, his caramel coloured skin. She smiled at him, closing her eyes.

"Pass me a towel," she motions to the thin pile of fabric on the floor next to him, one of their three towels. The other two are deep in the laundry basket, and equally as thin as the one Krit wrapped around Syl as she climbed out of the bath.

She dried off, Krit balancing on the edge of the bath, watching as she shrugged into one of his old t shirts. She pulled the clips out of her hair, scattering them over the vanity unit. She picked up her hair brush, running her fingers through her hair, her eyes distant.

"Let me brush it for you," Krit said, too loudly for the room. She turned, holding out the brush, her face closed off. He took the brush and led her out of the bathroom, his hand around hers. Their bedroom was the next room, with their bed pushed up against the wall, and stacks of books and clothes littering the room. Syl perches on the end of the bed, her legs crossed under her and Krit run the brush through her hair.

"Do you still want to talk?" Krit leant forward, murmuring in her ear. Syl shook her head, her hair fanning a little. She tilted her head back against his shoulder, grabbing his hands and tossing the brush onto the floor.

"Maybe later," she said.

"Promise me something, kitten?" he drawled, the old nickname rolling off his tongue as his hands slipped up her nightshirt.

"Mmm hmm?"

"Don't ever lock the bathroom door."

* * *

Aha. A vignette about commitment, insecurity and everything love can and cannot be.Or something along those lines.Review and make my day. 


End file.
